Love built a crimson house,
I know it well,
That he might have a home
Wherein to dwell.
Poor Love that roved so far
And fared so ill,
Between the morning star
And the Hollow Hill,
Before he found the vale
Where he could bide,
With memory and oblivion
Side by side.
He took the silver dew
And the dun red clay,
And behold when he was through
How fair were they!
The braces of the sky
Were in its girth,
That it should feel no jar
Of the swinging earth;
That sun and wind might bleach
But not destroy
The house that he had builded
For his joy.
"Here will I stay," he said,
"And roam no more,
And dust when I am dead
Shall keep the door."
There trooping dreams by night
Go by, go by.
The walls are rosy white
In the sun's eye.
The windows are more clear
Than sky or sea;
He made them after God's
Transparency.
It is a dearer place
Than kirk or inn;
Such joy on joy as there
Has never been.
There may my longed-for rest
And welcome be,
When Love himself unbars
The door for me!